


Little green, happy ending

by rightfullymine



Series: Blue Skies [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 21:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12466340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightfullymine/pseuds/rightfullymine
Summary: The littlest dragon makes a new acquaintance.





	Little green, happy ending

When she opens her eyes, the room is bathed in a pale grey light, thick and dreamlike. The big window is closed, to keep off the chill of early spring in Winterfell, but the panes are clear, and the sky is a cloudless stretch of blue tinged with the early hues of the dawn, pink and lilac and orange.

The sound of shrill crying coming from the bassinet by the end of their bed woke up Daenerys and she rubs a hand across her face to get rid of the last remnants of sleep. The bed is big and comfortable, and she is exceptionally warm, snuggled close to Jon, their legs intertwined, hands clasped, noses softly brushing.

She gives herself two more seconds before getting up and in that time she recognises another sort of cries she didn’t notice before. These come from outside the Keep and are much lower in pitch, like a soft keen, but beastly in its intensity. She is not surprised, really, that her dragons fly by their window and cry to the sound of Rhaenyra’s wailing.

She goes to put her feet in her slippers when a hand across her waist stops her and Jon’s voice tickles her ear.

“I’ll get her.”

There is the rustling of silk sheets and the lifting of his side of the mattress before he is up by the bed, black curls wild and long around his head, tired eyes and bare chest. She observes him as he moves around, puts a pair of linen breeches on and moves straight to the bassinet, where he leans down and picks up a bundle of screaming baby, before placing her gently against his chest.

“Hey there, Bright Star,” he murmurs.

Rhaenyra, dressed in a white woollen onesie, is tiny against her father’s chest. Jon rocks her tenderly, trying to get her to stop crying and for a moment he seems successful. The baby looks at Jon, blue-grey eyes widening in relieved and mercifully silent recognition, but then she places a tiny hand against her father’s puckered scar by his heart and opens her mouth to resume screaming, her face growing redder by the second.

She must be hungry, then, muses Daenerys and she smiles at the sight before her. She marvels at the way their baby has gotten used to her father’s body in the short two weeks of her life, touching his hair and his face, finding comfort in the warmth of his skin. She looks on as Jon keeps moving around, in an attempt to quieten the baby, his nose now pressed against the shock of pale blonde hair at the top of her head, inhaling her baby scent no doubt, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted.

Daenerys settles herself in a more sitting position against the headboard, fluffing an additional pillow and placing it behind her, as she recalls all the times her husband swore to her that her inability to give him children was of no matter to him, that he would have her and no one else, that _he lived for her._ She never doubted his sincerity for one second, but looking at him now she truly realises all the missed potential of a life together where he could hold in his arms no child of theirs. Sudden tears spring to her eyes at the sheer thought of the miracle they have been granted and she feels the now familiar warm burst of happiness that floods her chest upon thinking of her girl.

Jon is still pacing around the room, talking mindless nonsense to the baby, as he has developed a habit of doing. In the days after her birth, not much has been accomplished in Winterfell in terms of politics, what with the War over and the King and Queen otherwise busy. They will have to take the journey back to King’s Landing eventually though, and preparations have been started, albeit slowly, by their Small Council. Daenerys has ventured outside their chambers to see to matters of the Realm a couple of times, but she has generally stayed within the safety of their rooms, her body achy and tired, her baby new and hungry, her mind and heart needing to be with her perfect girl every waking moment, fearing she’d disappear or need her when she wasn’t around. So it fell on Jon to work as a bridge between their baby-scented bubble and the real world, to talk to Tyrion and Davos and the unruly Lords of the North. In the days when he is busy with kingly duties, he still finds himself winding back to their chambers several times, shedding his tunic as soon as he enters and picking up his daughter, to press her against his chest and tell her of his day, the blue of the sky and the softness of her mother’s hair.

“She is hungry, she wants you.”

Apparently giving up on trying to stop Rhaenyra’s crying by himself, Jon makes his way to their bed and carefully sits down, mindful of jostling the baby. Daenerys lowers the strap of her nightgown and extends her arms to receive the baby. As soon as Rhaenyra settles against her mother’s chest, her chubby hand finds her breast and in the middle of a yawn she latches onto her nipple. Her eyelids automatically drift shut and as she hums a soft sound of contentment Daenerys and Jon share a loving smile.

“Drink away, my love,” whispers the Queen as she strokes a finger against her baby’s cheek. She keeps her eyes on Rhaenyra for a bit longer, to make sure the baby won’t let go until she’s finished. Then, she raises her head to Jon, whose gaze she’s felt on herself ever since he sat down on the bed. Though the lines on his face show how tired he is, no doubt mirroring the bone-deep exhaustion she herself feels, his eyes shine brightly, with a light that won’t go out, born of a love that’s unquenchable.

“Gods, you are beautiful,” he murmurs. Then he moves a lock of her pale, long hair behind her ear, and leans down towards her. He places a butterfly kiss against the corner of her mouth, then presses his lips to hers, sweet and lingering. When he moves away, she keeps her eyes closed and licks the taste of his love from her lips.

He leans back against the headboard, and settles next to her, one hand on her thigh. He yawns noisily and Daenerys grins despite herself. He always insists on being awake with her when she nurses their child, but she knows he’ll doze off soon, his position on the bed making him comfortable and her proximity keeping him warm despite the covers being half off his body.

“Someone will complain again about Drogon and Rhaegal,” she voices her earlier concern. The dragons have yet to meet the new addition to the family, but it seems they can sense her presence anyway. When Rhaenyra is in distress especially, they hover around the Keep, their wings moving restlessly through the winds, their howling waking the people of Winterfell in the dark of night, or in the wee hours of the morning. Complaints have been plentiful, to put it mildly. Daenerys is not really worried as much as annoyed, in truth. Let them complain, she thinks.

“Let them complain,” he replies a bunch of seconds later, when his addled brain catches up to her words. The smile that comes unbidden to her lips is so big it’s almost painful. She turns around towards him only when she’s recomposed herself, for she’d hate to give him the satisfaction of making her smile so early in the morning, but she guesses he can still see the smile in her eyes. She doesn’t look away though. She readjusts the baby in her arms, then tells him simply, “I love you.”

He tilts his head to the side and blushes, the look in his eyes disarmingly adoring, “I know.”

The hand on her thigh squeezes possessively, a wave of warmth springing in her belly. She watches as his eyelids start drooping slowly, much like his daughter’s minutes earlier, the tired lines under his eyes smoothing with the approach of a contented sleep.

She turns around to look at her girl and finds the baby has finished suckling and is now snoring softly through her bow-shaped lips. Daenerys cannot help but stare, transfixed by this tiny human being in her arms, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood. She has seen so much death, has endured such terrible destruction that being here, in this moment, knowing such profound happiness, leaves her feeling breathless, her body alive with the thrumming thrill of new life she helped create. She thinks what she feels in this moment is not so unlike the feeling she gets when she’s astride Drogon, the cold winds of the skies whipping her hair about, her lungs swollen with the reinvigorated taste of speed and the liberating joy of flying. It’s been a while since she last rode her dragon, her growing belly making it impossible to be in the air, and two weeks since she last saw her children. Their absence feels like a dull ache in her chest, though admittedly soothed by the weight of her baby against her breasts.

She pauses in thought to listen to the sounds outside their window and notes the dragons are howling no more, probably placated now that Rhaenyra has been fed and rests peacefully in her arms. Though no sound can be heard, she senses Drogon nearby, probably as close as their balcony, and gets up with a strange urge to see him, to have him meet Rhaenyra.

She readjusts the strap of her flimsy nightgown on her shoulder and grabs a woollen blanket embroidered with shapes of wolves to wrap around the baby girl in her arms. As soon as she opens the window, a gust of chilly air blows her long hair behind her back and she shivers in the cold, aware of not wearing warm enough clothes but unable to put on anything more with Rhaenyra in her arms, before exiting to the balcony.

The sun is now visible in the sky, its orange shape peeking through the horizon and lighting the sky ablaze. Daenerys looks on and marvels at the incredible sight, feeling like the only one awake in the world to witness this astounding beauty. She feels inexplicably proud in this moment, a teary fullness tightening her chest, and thinks if she could pinpoint the times in her life when she’s truly felt like the queen she is, this would be one of them.

She moves her gaze to her right and watches as the gigantic shape of her dragon, impossibly perched on the railing, comes warily nearer. Immediately, his size shields her from the winds and the heat radiating from his scaly flesh warms her to the toes of her feet.

Drogon fixes her with a hard stare, a silent judgement for being away for so long. She moves towards him and raises her free arm in greeting. “I missed you so much,” is what she says, and while she speaks, she can feel her eyes tearing up, her voice cracking with the strain of her emotion.

The dragon bows his head and sniffs her skin for a moment before he bumps his snout against her hand, a sign all is forgiven, after all. Daenerys scratches his black scales a bit longer before looking pointedly into Drogon’s eyes, her heart thudding like a caged animal in her chest, before saying, “I want you to meet your sister.”

She brings her free hand to where Rhaenyra is still sleeping on her chest, and lowers the blanket that was covering her face. A pretty pink creeps on the baby’s cheek from the chill in the air, but the princess sleeps on, unperturbed.

Drogon takes a step back, momentarily stunned by the sight of the baby, perhaps a tiny bit afraid. Daenerys chuckles at that, amused beyond measure that her tiny girl could intimidate the mighty dragon. He doesn’t stay away, though, and approaches again with a low growl that would scare anyone else. Daenerys stays rooted in her spot, waiting. The dragon lowers his head, eager to breathe in the scent of this new, weird creature to assuage if she can be trusted. When he is satisfied enough, he rubs his snout in her soft baby hair and hums low in his throat, the sound of breathless awe.

Daenerys smiles then, her heart impossibly light in her chest, before patting the beast on the side of his head, a last touch before the dragon huffs in impatience, backs away from mother and daughter and takes flight, his wings a black canvas against the blue of the sky.

Alone on the balcony once more, a shiver runs down her spine, the early morning air still cold in Winterfell, despite winter being finally behind them.

Rhaenyra opens her eyes lazily and clutches her mother’s little finger in her chubby hand. Daenerys grins at the gesture and lowers her forehead to rest tenderly against her baby’s.

“My little dragon, you were so brave,” she whispers, tightening her hold around the girl’s tiny body and watching as Rhaenyra stares at her, mouth agape and eyes wide in wonder, the sound of her mother’s voice like the sweetest music to her ears.

Daenerys smiles lovingly, fervently wishing she could live in this moment for the rest of her days. “Should we go back to Papa?” she asks.

The happy gurgle she receives from her daughter is all the answer she needs.


End file.
